'Tis midnight! Now to face him were a deed, To feel that one had done it--not to tell. To fold the arms and look upon the work That I have wrought with stedfast, iron will-- There's evil fascination in the thought: Grows to desire! I cannot stay my feet! Like one in dreams, or hurried by a storm, That hales him on with wild uncertain steps, I move on to the thing I dread. [_Sighs deeply._] Methought A voice stole on mine ears--as if a sword [_Sighs again._] Clove the oppressive air. Why do I shrink? On Naseby field my bare head tower'd high; And now I bend me, though my tingling ears Unconscious but drink in the deep-drawn sigh, That doth attend on greatness. This is folly. O coward fancy, lie still in thy grave! A king doth keep his coffin, why not thou? I'll meet him like a conqueror, whose cheek Flushes with manly pity. Could it be That he had lived without his country's shame! But no! and thus, I come, Charles Stuart! to tell Thy bloodless clay, that I repent me _not_! No! if a hecatomb of kings were slain, I'd own the deed unto their legion'd spirits! [_Exit, L._] SCENE IV. [_Last Grooves._] _A State Room in Whitehall. The moon shines through the windows._ _On a large bed with crimson hangings, surmounted with black plumes, is seen a Coffin and pall, richly emblazoned with the royal arms of England. On each side an Ironside keeping guard with a matchlock. They walk to and fro, and speak as they meet._ _1st Iron._ I tell thee, Bowtell, I would this watch were over. _2nd Iron._ I would it were a bright morning, with our pike-heads glittering in the sun. I would rather it were a charge of Rupert's best cavalry in our rear. _1st Iron._ I mind when I saw him once alive, 'twas at the close of the fight, and he would have charged once more, but a false Scotch noble held him back to his ruin. Had I been he, I would have cloven the false Scot to the chine. I was a prisoner, and near him; he had a tall white plume then. His dark face showed very eager beneath it. _2nd. Iron._ Ay, I have heard good Jepherson tell of it, and how the Lord blinded them all. _1st Iron._ I mind his very words,-- "Charles Stuart begs a little loyal blood To do him right--a charge, but one more charge! Come on, we do command, come on. O cowards! Had I but fifty of my nephew Rupert!" And then he waved his sword, as 'twere the whole cut and thrust exercise in the air at once, and his plume fluttered like a white bird in the eye of a tempest. If he should speak now--[_A footstep is heard, both look round._] _2nd Iron._ Didst thou hear nought? _1st Iron._ O for a stoop of strong waters! _2nd Iron._ Hist! 'twas like a soldier's tread in the long gallery beyond. _1st Iron._ Nay, 'tis the echo of thine own feet. _2nd Iron_ 'Tis a footstep. Hark, it stops! _1st Iron._ Do thou speak. _Enter CROMWELL, L._ [_They bring their matchlocks to bear._] The word, or else we fire! _Crom._ [_Muttering._] Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?